Physical Evidence

"You don't have to come and confess;

we're gonna find you."

____________________________________________

This morning I ate the last

of the reheated leftovers from the feast

that we all eagerly shared

and you prepared.

Soon, I will dutifully wash off

the final oily remains

of your residual scent;

your fluids intermixed with mine.

Then, as I immerse myself

back into piles of work and

the everpresent musical

mayhem of mundane life,

the only physical evidence

to remind me of your stay

will be so many empty bottles in a row

and the random long silver hairs

            scattered on the pillows.

Vexation Abounds

Well, I'm exaggerating a little for effect, but I am vexed right now.  I am not altogether vexed, but the word ABOUNDS fit nicely with the word VEXATION, so there ya go.

I'm recoiling from yet another unhappy episode between myself and my headstrong son.  We disagree on many issues, and sometimes it causes us both much stress.  I'm feeling it right now.  I'm not going to elaborate on that here though, because it "aint nobody's business" and because I like to keep some aspects of my private life private, both because I am a somewhat private person, and also out of respect for my son, whom I do love and respect.  Do unto others, and all that.

What I will do instead is try to calm myself and vent a little stress by writing, which has always been good for me in my life.  Writing saved me in the torment of my adolescence, and I'm hoping it can help me out now.  Verbal vomit soothes my troubled soul.  That and music.

But now that the dust is starting to settle a little bit, I doubt my ability to write without fixating on the troubling event that preceded this writing.  It's not epic or amazing, just another straw, another back.  Still, it's increased my heart rate and caused me distress.  I'm bothered.  I care.  I can't fix it though, so I'll let it go until another time.

It's almost a new year, so that's something worthy of writing about, I suppose.  I could write about what has transpired this year, what I hope to have happen next year, and compare notes with my past self and my present self, but I'm not really feeling it right now.  I'm too angry to be reflective and there's so much I don't want to say.  I'm stuck between wanting to be open, and wanting to be discrete; wanting to bare all, and wanting to shut the damn door and stop the breeze from chilling me.

So I'm listening to David Sylvian and feeling my breathing slow, writing about writing and not writing, and feeling my throat and heart both ache.  It's late and I have much to do.  Much to ponder, much to begin, much to end, much to sleep.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."